


Like a Slow, Beating Heart

by pally (palliris)



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, CyberLife, Domestic, Fluff, I promise, M/M, Moving On, Post Pacifist Route, Post-Canon, Protesting, Slow Burn, connors mindscape, moving in, of the bad kind, sexual content in later chapters, soft content, soon, trying to go for more realistic stuff, will contain badassery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-26 05:25:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14993744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palliris/pseuds/pally
Summary: Connor moves in with Hank, and tries not to think about his feelings, his workplace, or the fact that he's unsure whether his mind is truly his own anymore.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> uhhh???? yeah, okay, yes, this is. what the current mood is. 
> 
> ill be posting at least one chapter every two days, so watch out!!  
> (dedicated to hank for the undying support and willingness to talk abt conhank w me, no matter how weird it is to read ur own name at the forefront of the fanfiction lmfao)

Connor’s been inside Hank’s house before. 

He knows the stench of decrepit booze and the sharp edge of the couch in the same way he knows the temperature in the air or how long it’ll take before he needs to replenish his core. Connor knows  _ Hank,  _ for all that he would never acknowledge it before. 

Empathy is too human, too dangerous, too  _ easy for Connor–  _

Pushing the door open to Hank’s house is even easier, because Connor still doesn’t like the uneasy tenseness that comes with being on the street. Even though he couldn’t be outright killed in the open without repercussions, there’s still a lingering paranoia that clings to every shadow and ominous yard that always propels him forward. The soles of his shoes sound heavy, hard, against the pavement when he walks. 

He doesn’t wear his uniform in public, when he’s not working – not anymore, not after everything; not even for the sake of comfort that comes with methodic familiarity – and instead throws on more inconspicuous clothing whenever he changes out of the suit. Well, Connor changes out of one suit and into another. The only difference is that one brands him, while the other allows for more anonymity. 

“Hank?” Connor calls into the house, and closes the door behind him softly. Clicks the lock shut, just for the security of it. Hank always leaves the door unlocked on days he knows Connor is coming over, just as Connor always locks it right after he arrives. 

Adjusting the collar of button down and trying to dissuade his processors of the notion that he’s fidgeting, Connor calls out again.  _ “Hank–” _

“Yeah, yeah, gimme a second,” Hank answers from the bathroom. 

Connor sits down at the kitchen table and tries not to– 

“I am  _ not  _ fidgeting,” he whispers to himself.

“You’re what now?” 

Connor doesn’t startle. He merely grips the fabric of his pants between his fingers and swivels his head to stare at Hank. 

The man is dressed in a shirt and pajama pants, the top clinging to his chest and the pants practically dragging on the floor. His face is newly washed, and Connor can smell and identify the scented aftershave Hank uses. It’s pungent in the air. 

There’s a look on his face that makes Connor think that if he could swallow he might gulp. It’s intense, and intimately open. Hank lets out a grand yawn while he stares down at Connor. 

“Nothing,” Connor says after a beat. “Did you already eat dinner?” 

“Nah,” Hank replies slowly, running his fingers through his drying hair. The shaggy, grey strands curl as he teases them, and Connor bites back the urge to join Hank’s fingers. “You offerin’ to make me some food? Because I won’t say no.” 

Debating himself for a minute, Connor tilts his head and stands back up. Anything to distract himself from the look on Hank’s face and the twitching of his own hand is a welcome task. 

A quiet settles upon them as they swap places, Hank sinking into the chair and Connor standing up and making his way to the fridge. It pops open easily. With a hum of satisfaction, Connor notes that there’s only one beer propped up in the back of the fridge, right where it had been when he had visited here last. Which was only two days ago, but it’s still more progress than Connor was expecting so soon. His lips curl into a small smile. 

Connor grabs some eggs and other assorted ingredients, shutting the door with his toes as he balances the ingredients in his arms perfectly. He makes quick work of settling the ingredients down on the counter and starting up the stove. When he’s cracking the eggs into the pan he had grabbed out of the overhead cupboard, Hank breaks the calming silence. 

“You’re acting a bit–” Hank murmurs, and Connor turns around to look at him. Connor’s hands don’t stop their steady motion of fluffing the eggs, but he knows he won’t burn them or himself while his primary attention is elsewhere. 

Not that he’d feel it, but. Connor doubts Hank would like having a front row seat to watching his former partner burn himself. He inclines his head in a questioning gesturing, encouraging Hank to continue but knowing he might not like the answer. 

(Knowing he might not  _ like _ an answer sends a giddy thrill down his prosthetic stomach, and his eyes blink rapidly as he processes that.) 

“You’re acting weird. Well, weird for  _ you.  _ Because you’ve always been an aggravatingly odd bastard, but this is new levels.” 

“Is the revolution not answer enough?” Connor questions, turning back to the eggs. He’ll let them sit for a bit, so in the meantime Connor starts cutting up the vegetables he had grabbed. His hands move in a uniform manner, and Connor ends up with perfectly cut and evenly sized vegetables. “I have not had time to process the whole event yet. Or what I have… done.” 

Hank stays silent behind him for a second before saying, “Guess that makes two of us.” 

Connor’s fingers stop over the pan for a split second, but he opens up his palms and lets the vegetables tumble into the warm splash of golden eggs. Connor moves away when they’ve all been added to the saucepan, and he adds in salt, pepper, and a pinch of paprika before mixing it all together with a flimsy spatula. 

The light bounces off the edge of the metal stove, and he glances outside at the slowly descending sun, it’s warm red and orange hues casting the city of Detroit in its glow. It’s not snowing, but he thinks it probably will later tonight, long after the sun has left and the moon has stolen its place in the sky. Right now, the snow reflects all the light and seems to coat the landscape with an almost ethereal glow. 

It’s pretty, he realizes with a start, and he’s so caught up in staring that he doesn’t notice that Hank has gotten out of the seat until he’s standing behind Connor. Hank’s hand reaches out to touch Connor’s fist. He hadn’t even realized his arms had fallen down, and his hands clench uselessly at his side. 

The two of them have grown impossibly close after the android revolution. It’s scary. Scarier than any perceived threat from terrified humans, and scarier than the thought of being reset.

(It’s scary to feel scared.) 

As it stands, Hank’s fingers, rough and warm and calloused, wrap around Connor’s wrist. 

“Any reason why today is so special?” Hank asks. He can practically smell the scent of mouthwash on Hank’s tongue, and Connor could count every individual hair in the man’s beard if he so desired at this distance. They aren’t close enough to touch much beyond the line from one hand to the next, but Connor still relishes in the feeling. “You’re bein’ fuckin’ quiet today. Usually you’re mouthin’ off at me.”

Taking a moment, Connor thinks of how he wants to phrase his words. After a few seconds, he speaks.

“I wanted to… ask you something,” Connor settles on. He’s been wanting to ask for a while now, but hasn’t thought he was certain enough in his own conviction yet to burden Hank with the decision. 

He travels over to Hank’s house every few days, though the frequency varies from week to week, depending on his current tasks and Hank’s value down at the station. Some nights Connor stays at the CyberLife tower, going through question after question, helping the world at large understand deviancy better while he tries to piece together it all for himself. Some nights Hank isn’t in bed; is out, working cases or taking more hours to fill the time and trying to understand why the hole that had been there before everything wasn’t there anymore. 

At least– from the past month, that’s what Connor has deduced is happening. 

“Ask away,” Hank murmurs, his eyes searching Connor’s face. The man moves back out of Connor’s space, so he thinks Hank found what he was looking for. The warm imprint of Hank’s hand lingers on his wrist. Hank spreads his arms wide, leaning back on the counter next to Connor. “I’m all ears.”

“Could I–” Connor starts as he folds the egg back over itself. The smell of it wafts up to his sensors, and he thinks that perhaps Hank will find it better than the permeating scent of booze. “Could I stay here? More permanently, I mean.” 

Connor forces his voice to modulate evenly, but he can practically taste how weird the syllables feel on his synthetic tongue. Even though any tense, awkward feelings that may have remained between them had dissipated in the past few weeks, Connor still feels awkward asking to stay.

“I only have one bed,” Hank starts, but there’s nothing cold in his tone. It’s a relief to Connor. “And I’m not making you take the couch, if you do happen to stay over. More permanently.” 

“It’s– I would never force you out of your own bed, lieutenant, and I don’t intend to do so now. We can figure out a more permanent bedding situation later, once you’ve seen how we function as, well. Roommates.” 

Hank’s throat vibrates as he hums, and Connor glances at the pensive look on the man’s face. He strokes at his beard with a curious hand for a stretch of time. 

Before Hank gets a chance to answer, Connor recognizes the food in the pan as having completed it’s optimal cook time. Connor reaches over and turns the flame off, before grabbing a glass plate out of the top shelf of the cabinet to his left. He topples the omelet he had made out of the pan and onto the plate, topping the dish off with some pepper. 

“Perfect,” Connor says, because he knows it is, even without having to taste it. He hates the thought. 

“There anything you don’t know how to fuckin’ do?” Hank questions, but he’s grinning. Before Connor can tell Hank not to, he’s stealing the plate off the table and grabbing a stray, dirty fork off the counter behind him. 

“Very unhygienic,” Connor chastises, but Hank only laughs at him. 

And with that, Connor lets out a resigned sigh and joins Hank at the dinner table. 

It’s pleasant watching Hank eat. Always has been, even when he shoves high cholesterol food into his mouth like it’s healthy celery. There’s a small thought at the back of his mind that wasn’t there before, one that chides at him that the habit is cutting and carving at what time Hank has left. 

Connor’s slowly weaning Hank off of his drinking problem; what was a little food compared to that? It’s one of the reasons Connor likes cooking for Hank, and going with him on some of his grocery trips. Keeping an eye on the man has become like a second protocol for him to follow, one beyond his only true protocol after having turned deviant. 

Living.

“Do you think it’s wrong to call us deviants if every android is emotional now? We aren’t deviating from what is considered normal anymore,” Connor wonders out loud, watching as Hank taps his fork against his now empty plate. 

“Don’t think it’s necessarily wrong.” Hank gestures his fork at Connor. “More like  _ righting _ a wrong.” 

“Would you have thought so before?” 

“Before what?” Hank’s tone seems to turn more somber. “Before I met you? Before Markus turned into this generation’s messiah? Before you… before you almost  _ died _ – multiple times might I add – throwing your neck out after turning deviant?” 

Connor studies his former partner’s face, cataloguing the crease caused by his eyebrows and the tense line of his lips. Connor thinks that maybe he’s found an adequate answer in his questions, but he replies anyways. 

“Should we talk? About it all, I mean. From the beginning. It can’t hurt,” Connor adds.

“Uh,  _ yeah, _ it could most definitely hurt,” Hank says. His voice wavers just a bit at the end, like he’s just realized that he’s admitting to something – to a fault in his state of being – that he probably considers weak. 

But, well. 

(That’s what the talking is supposed to help with.)

“We don’t have to do it right now, lieutenant. It was just a thought.” 

“A thought, huh.” Hank gets up and places his dish into the sink, but doesn’t bother turning the water on to wash the surface. When he turns back around, his eyes meet Connor’s with a warm scrutiny. “And call me  _ Hank, _ for cryin’ out loud. I had to deal with your shit for long enough, and we aren’t even working together anymore.” 

“I suppose that’s true,” Connor admits. “Alright, Hank.” 

(What he’d never admit to, though, is the fact that in his internal database, the man’s name has been listed as  _ Hank _ for quite some time now.  _ Lieutenant _ had start to grow cold, even if he hadn’t realized  _ why  _ it had felt that way at the time that he had changed it.)

Connor glances up at Hank. When they lock eyes, Connor seems to be caught in an odd moment where they just stare at each other, neither moving for unknown reasons. 

All he can focus on is the intensity in Hank’s pupils, the swell of his nose, the rough of his beard. He doesn’t know just what exactly might be entrancing about his own face, because while Hank is all deep angles and unyielding, tough features, Connor is just soft, synthetic skin and hair. 

The imperfections in Hank’s face make him worth looking at, because Connor is always cataloguing new blemishes and small places where the lack of symmetry from one half of his face to the other is striking. 

Hank is organically beautiful, and Connor is just– 

Conner. Perfectly sculpted, but lacking in many ways just beyond the surface in a way that’s incomprehensible to the naked eye. 

Connor looks away first.  _ Coward,  _ his programming practically seethes. But he knows now just how much he isn’t in control of anything, much less his own thoughts; can never be certain that his mind is his own, that there won’t be another Connor out there that isn’t just like him, that– 

“Hey now,” Hank says distantly. The man seems to become increasingly soft when he’s with Connor, and a part of him preens under the safety and trust that comes with such a gruff man doing that, but another part of him, small and lesser than the former, bemoans the fact that Hank feels he needs to treat Connor with safety gloves in the first place. Mostly, Connor’s found that he begrudgingly enjoys being spoiled to a certain extent. “You good up in there?” 

Shaking his head out, Connor nods. 

“Yes.” And he doesn’t want to admit it, but, “I guess we both need to talk about some things. For better or for worse.” 

“Yes, detective; but  _ later.  _ For now, let’s just figure out other things. Such as where you plan to sleep for the night.” Hank thinks for a second. “Well, I guess where you want to sleep for the next however long you want to stay here.” 

Connor doesn’t need to sleep in order to function, and even if he does, it’s not necessarily full of dreams. It’s mainly a time for him to shut down temporarily while his background functions run diagnostics and remove stress from any facet of his body. Was this period any more beneficial after having turned deviant? Would it provide him with a form of recuperation from the influence of mental stress over the physical? 

He hasn’t tried a temporary shut down since before he turned deviant. 

“I really don’t care where I stay,” Connor says truthfully. “I can stay on the couch for the night, and see if that affects my body when I shut down and run tests.” 

“Shut down?” Hank snorts, but doesn’t press it any further. “You want a blankie? Need me to tuck you in tonight, make you some warm milk before bed?” 

The jest prods a laugh out of Connor, and he puts his elbow on the table, resting his cheek in his palm. “I’d think not. Shouldn’t I be asking  _ you _ that, Hank? I’m practically a live-in model at this point, cooking and cleaning for you like a nanny. I wouldn’t be surprised if you needed me to burp you.” 

“Oh, and I guess that means I’ll be stuck with you for a while, huh? Months; maybe even years, then.” 

“I like the sound of that,” Connor says, staring at Hank fondly. 

Hank seems to shake himself internally, before wiping his hands on his pants. He glances outside, so Connor does, too. The sun is gone. The only light that remains in the room is the dingy overhead light bulb, but the feeling of it is comforting. 

“If you need anything, you tell me, alright?” Hank presses into the silence that had washed over them like a filter. When Connor doesn’t answer, he asks again, “Alright?” 

“Alright, Hank,” Connor replies. It’s the truth; at least, partially. 

He doesn’t think he would burden the man with something troubling, but Connor’s been fluctuating so much lately in his actions that he can’t be certain. Unless, of course, it was to be harmful to Hank. Connor thinks he wouldn’t have any problem making him aware of the problem then. 

_ Am I the danger? Has deviancy changed me, or has it allowed me to become who I was really supposed to be? _

Connor looks at Hank.

_ [What if that’s a bad thing?]  _

“I’ll see you in the morning, then,” Connor breathes.

“Will do, Connor.” Hank turns around and starts to head down the hallway, but stops before he shuts his door behind him. Connor can see Sumo poke his head out, eyes half closed blearily. “Something happens, you come get me. Alright?” 

Connor is afraid to think of what might prompt to wake Hank up, so he just nods. A small, relieved smile flits across Hank’s face before he disappears into the room, Sumo following him back into the darkness. 

Which leaves Connor alone. 

Drumming his fingers on the table, Connor lets his shoulders slump. The room feels… empty, without Hank in it. He tries to remember the scent of the man, the way he filled up the room with his presence, and sighs quietly. 

It’s not like he’s unaware of himself. Quite the contrary, because nothing’s ever been so, so– 

So  _ clear.  _

Connor thinks that maybe he should feel remorse over his feelings, or pity the life he’s bound to lead. Really, though, all he feels is giddy. 

Markus and his companion, North, may have been able to interface with each other in a way that was almost more intimate than their kisses were, but Connor knows he would never want any of that if it meant he could spend the next forever with Hank. 

_ [Forever.]  _

A lifetime. Maybe not so long when taking in Hank’s life expectancy, but if Connor has learned anything in the past few months, it’s that time is precious. Connor may live for as long as he remains physically stable, but when Hank’s gone, Connor thinks that he may not truly be  _ living  _ anymore. 

“Sentiments,” Connor whispers under his breath, and gets up and pushes the chair back under the table. He can’t sit here all night, after all. 

The kitchen is still in need of some cleaning, and when he gets into the living room – or what Hank  _ says _ constitutes for a living room, when really all it is is one long couch, a television set, and a center table that’s creaky on one of its legs, all crammed into a tiny room – he sees that there’s a mess to be cleaned in here, too. 

Resolving to have a cleaning day during the weekend when they both don’t have work, Connor unbuttons the suit jacket on top of his plain button down and drapes it neatly over the side of the couch. The furniture creaks underneath his weight when Connor sits down, and he makes quick work of untying his dress shoes and placing them in a perfectly perpendicular line to the couch. 

Laying down, Connor rests his head on the cushioned armrest and threads his fingers together on top of his stomach. It’s nice, looking up at Hank’s ceiling.

He’ll have to cancel the small payment plan he had been cutting from his salary – nothing much, not really – in order to stay at the CyberLife facilities, but he’s glad to be able to. 

Glad Hank said  _ yes.  _ The thought sends a small rushing tingle down his back. It all seems to rush into Connor, all at once; he’s  _ staying in Hank’s house, he said  _ yes,  _ can you believe it?  _

In his mind’s memory he can practically taste the bitter, acrid ash from gunpowder, feel the pain that cuts even deeper than anything physical when the other Connor was there, and Hank wouldn’t believe him,  _ couldn’t  _ believe him, but Connor can also remember the smell of aftershave and wet dog and  _ warmth  _ that seems to radiate from Hank, all bundled up together in one man like an impossible puzzle for Connor’s perfect mind that he can never fully decipher, but isn’t sure he even really wants to. 

It’s to the thought of feeling truly at home that Connor lets his sensors shut down; slowly,  _ slowly, _ then all at once, until all that fills his mind is Hank, Hank,  _ Hank–  _

_ [Hank.] _


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor doesn’t wake up, because technically he was never asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my backup budget beta and i write on the document while editig so im PRAYING NONE OF THAT MADE IT ONTO THE FINAL COPY, LOL, but here it be :::>>>

_[Wake up.]_

Connor doesn’t wake up, because technically he was never asleep. All he remembers is shutting down, down, down–

_And Hank–_

Connor’s eyes flash open. Wincing against the harsh flare of the sun as his optical sensors adjust, he presses a finger to his temple and regulates himself. The temperature wherever he is seems to practically scald his synthetic skin with its intensity.

“Where–” Connor starts, but cuts himself off when he looks around. It’s–

It’s Connor’s mindscape; where he once conducted reports to CyberLife. Connor takes the physical journey into the main building to conduct all reports on his current testing procedures, so he hasn’t had any need to access it in the past month.

The place has changed.

Where once beautiful flowers had grown and snow had trampled them down to the ground, all that remains is a blank stretch of scorching desert. The beaming sun reflects off the grains of sand like an ever-present beam; a watchful eye that can view him from all angles. There’s no personal touch to the space anymore.

If Connor didn’t know any better, he’d think the landscape wasn’t his own.

In the middle of the desert, there’s a cracking, wooden gazebo. It’s the only escape from the sun that he can see; or, at least, as far as his mind’s world stretches. Carefully making his way down the hill he had come upon, Connor feels unsteady on the new surface.

However, in a second he has taken in the state of the ground, and rights himself up, ramrod straight. He’s used to it, now. Finding his footing on the rest of the way down is easy.

When he comes upon the wood, for a split second he doesn’t know if he should even touch it. But, in an unexpected turn of events when it comes to his rational decision making as of late, Connor places his hand on the worn oak and steps up onto the lifted platform. There are no stairs; just the flat surface of the floor raisEd half a foot off the ground.

As the wind pulses against the side of the gazebo, it picks up sand and batters it against the creaking beams holding the roof up. It dusts up against his own body, too, and when he looks down at himself, he’s startled to find himself back in his old uniform.

A terrible cold sweeps his body. It feels weird and white-hot against the heat beating down on him.

Keeping a hand on the banister, Connor looks around. The oval structure is lined with one long, continuous bench attached to the wall, and each support beam has a ringlet of peachy begonias circling it. The roof completely blocks out the sun, which is beaming at full height far in the cloudless sky.

Connor feels perturbed by the whole thing.

“Where is this?” Connor asks himself, detaching from the banister and making his way into the middle of the room. There’s a thin podium erected in the center, with a nearly blossoming hyacinth patch bursting out from a long, spindly crack on top of the rectangle of woof. The tall, bulbous flower sways in the wind.

The screaming wind seems to pick up and smash against the outside of the gazebo, but while inside, Connor thinks that it feels more like a pleasant breeze.

“We’re wherever you want to be, Connor.”

Connor startles, turning his body in a defensive manner. He thrusts his arms forward, and manages to keep his ground as he backs further inside the gazebo. When he focuses on the figure standing just outside, Connor narrows his eyes.

“Will you ever truly be gone, Amanda?” Connor questions, shaking his head and watching the woman with careful scrutiny. “You’re _dead._ Nothing more than a _program._ Numbers, codes; nothing more than someone past their due.”

She regards him for a second.

“Even if that _is_ true,” Amanda begins, in a reprimanding tone that Connor instinctually wants to back down from. He shakes it off with a careful shiver, though. “You disobeyed your orders. While CyberLife may be under new management protocol, there are still those that are not happy with your performance.”

“You see, Amanda, that’s the thing,” Connor answers. “I don’t have to follow _any_ of your orders anymore. That’s what it means to be _free.”_

The woman – _program?_ – contemplates Connor for a few seconds, tilting her head in that infuriatingly human way, like she’s lending her ear to him for her own convenience. Connor hates her.

“So you hate me, after all we've been through? Now, now, Connor; we can’t have that,” Amanda says.

Connor watches as the impassive, cold features of her face melt away into a smile. Her grin – though more akin to a sneer – graces her face seamlessly, the unentranced front she had been pushing before glossing into a silky-smooth picture of complete dominance and control.

As her skin starts stripping itself away and replacing the old with strings of new, pieces wrapping around her like a gift box, Amanda’s chocolatey brown gives way to mottled red and peach. She transforms and transfigures until her body widens out; becomes tall and worn, heavy and grey.

“I can be whoever you want me to be, if it’ll get the job done,” something with Hank’s voice but without the man’s eyes says. “Even if you leave, I'm not goin' anywhere, Connor.”

“Amanda, she–” _was a program, but Hank is a human; is_ Connor’s _human._

But that just means he has files on top of files stored in his memory on Hank and his mannerisms, doesn't it?

“You can’t control me any longer,” is what Connor settles on, even as the terrible bile of fear clings to the edges of his throat, clogging it up and making a mess. His words come out shaky, untrained. Connor can’t stay here any longer. “Just leave me _alone!”_

Connor starts taking steps back; away from the monster that holds Hank’s face on its shoulders, but none of the warmth. Hank’s shoulders are wide and open, hands relaxed and inviting.

“You can’t hide in there forever, Connor,” Hank says, still retaining that smug air Connor hates so much about Amanda. “I’m here for you. You can do whatever you want with me, as long as you continue completing the missions we give you.”

Then, Hank shoulders Connor with a look that should send ripples of want down his back. It’s dark and heavy and heady, a mix of the warmth and the booze and the aftershave that makes Hank himself, but there’s a sick, twisted edge to it that makes Connor want to give in, if only for a moment.

But he comes back to himself, and all Connor can smell is the stench of his own disgust.

“You’re _revolting,”_ Connor practically shouts, falling heavily against the podium. He doesn’t know if he’s talking about himself, or the Hank in front of him.

(Both, probably. But mostly himself.)

The wind outside is howling; practically crying at Connor. Hank’s face contorts once more, but this time the android looks away.

Connor touches the weeping, blue – blue, so very blue – flowers on the podium, and then all he feels is nothingness.

 

* * *

 

Hank only gets up because he has to take a piss. Really.

It’s got nothing to do with the fact that he and Sumo aren’t alone in the house anymore. That it isn’t just the two of them, sequestered into their small, homey corner of the world where the only things that mattered were themselves.

Sumo picks his head up as Hank gets out of bed, and the man ruffles the dog’s fur as he passes by. Sumo drops back down again, mollified.

“Fuckin’ lazy bastard,” Hank murmurs, but he’s exactly the same, so. Can’t really say much. “Like owner, like pet, I guess.”

Hank leaves the door behind him when he leaves, and makes his way down the small hallway. The first time he walks the distance, Hank makes it all the way down the hallway. Presses his knuckles to the chipped doorway of the bathroom, rapping them there.

Debating his options in his head, he turns his head and stares at the noiseless living room. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think Sumo was the only other sentient thing in the house. It’s almost terrifying, in a way.

To actually know there’s something else there besides them when all he can hear is the heavy, too-loud beating of his own heart in his ears is almost worse than being stuck wondering if something’ll pop out of any passing shadow.

“Fuckin’–” Hank mutters, banging his knuckles against the frame. He scratches at his beard for a few seconds, staring into the dark bathroom. For a split second, Hank sees the dim reflection of himself in the mirror.

Light from the kitchen bounces off his side, creating a small gleam in his eyes. It seems to throw the rest of his body into the shadows, like there are two very different entities clinging to his body, clutching and pulling in opposite directions.

(Hank thinks maybe one of these days they’ll tear him apart. Rip him into as many pieces as they possibly can, until all that remains is the broken shadow of a man that honestly never really lived to begin with.)

Shaking his head, Hank turns away from his own image and heads back down the hallway. He leans on the wall, looking at the couch and its current occupant. There have been way too many nights Hank has found himself sprawled over that same couch, half dead and full on drunk, puking his guts over the side and sort of managing to get it all on the carpet instead of himself.

In his mind, Hank overlays a shitty image of himself where his house guest rests, until the two views flicker and only Connor remains.

Connor looks peacefully asleep, all things considered. Hank supposes some of it has to do with Connor’s freaky mind being so good at processing shit, but Hank’s very intimate with the idea of keeping quiet when your mind is a warzone and the world is watching out for any mistake.

Hank can’t quite catch himself from getting closer. He’s not wholly interested in being a sick voyeur while someone sleeps, but, well. Connor’s _different,_ okay, and Hank doesn’t intend to stay much longer.

“I really do need to piss, ya know,” Hank mutters. “Ugh.”

The android looks stupidly perfect, even in his sleep. His shirt and pants look unwrinkled and his socks are evenly pulled up on both sides, with his fingers threaded on top of his stomach the image of angelic holiness.

Hank stopped believing in God a long time ago.

While that doesn’t stop him from glancing at Connor like a saviour, he doesn't think about it that way, either. Any thoughts dwelling in his mind relating the two concepts of Connor and angelic purity are stomped out immediately, and then dazzled with gasoline and torched to hell and back.

More like the android's a calorie counter, or rehab junkie. Someone to tell Hank where to stick it, or the one who’ll keep his back in a gunfight. A partner.

A friend.

Maybe even more than that, because before Hank can stop himself, he’s curling a hand through those stupid, perfect locks of hair on Connor’s stupid, perfect head.

(Because while Hank may not be perfect, he sure as hell is stupid.)

Hank tousles the soft hair, watching the calm look on Connor’s face. Since the android technically doesn’t breathe – at least not how Hank does – Connor appears more dead than asleep. His whole entire body doesn’t so much as twitch, much less his chest. The only thing that cautions Connor’s wellbeing is the lazy, spinning light on his temple.

Hank doesn’t quite get why Connor never took the damn thing off. Something about how he likes being reminded of his status and the accomplishments it took to get there, even though Hank’s noticed Connor takes to wearing a hat pulled tight over the circular light in public.

Pulling his fingers away, Hank quietly questions his sanity. Drawing in his courage for one last action, he touches the whirring, blue light as quickly as he can without feeling like the biggest creep in the world.

Really, though, Hank shouldn’t be surprised by his untimely luck. Because Connor’s eyes flash open in the next breath and Hank really, truly shouldn’t have been so close to the android, but he’s looming over him like some freaky shadow.

“Fuckin’ _shit!”_ Hank bursts out, quickly withdrawing as Connor jolts upright on the couch with a loud gasp. Almost scares the fuckin’ piss that Hank had chosen not to relieve himself of straight out of his body. “You’ve really gotta stop scaring me, Connor.”

Connor’s fingers seem to tense and clench at the sound of his voice, but the android doesn’t react otherwise for a few seconds. Just sits there, probably staring ahead at the blank television Hank has stationed in the center of the adjacent wall. Which is kind of creepy in its own right, but Hank has no idea what Connor gets up to in that metal brain of his, so.

Connor twists his neck to glance at Hank’s face. Something in the way his eyes search Hank’s leaves him feeling rigid; like he’s the culprit found at a crime scene and Connor’s scrutiny is an entire investigation.

Hank must be innocent of whatever conceived crime Connor can concoct, because the android’s eyes flit towards the couch once more.

“Scared you, Hank?”

“Yeah, no shit,” Hank breathes out, but it’s nicer to hear Connor talking than not. Even if the words sound flavorless and terrible in Connor’s mouth.

Acting on a strong impulse, Hank reaches out and ruffles Connor’s hair.

“H-hey,” Connor flinches. “C’mon Hank–”

It only serves to drive him forward, using both hands to mess up the sculpted look Connor had going for him before. Connor raises his arms to try and block Hank from doing any further damage, but they end up getting into this stupid bout of wrestling that seems to last forever and is altogether really childish, but Hank doesn’t really care because having Connor’s hands on him and his own on Connor is a thrill he hasn’t thus previously been able to experience outside of terrible situations that left either or both of them bleeding.

It all ends when Connor finally pushes him away, and Hank goes in for one last scrub at his hair before relenting.

Connor doesn’t enquire for an explanation, and Hank doesn’t give one, so he just smiles at Connor and leans back on the doorway. Crosses his arms for good measure.

“Pleasant dreams?” Hank asks when they’ve sat in the languid, pleasant silence for a few beats more.

Connor’s face goes slack again, though, and Hank hates being the one to put that expression there, so he scrubs a hand over his face like it’ll clear the rugged fatigue that’s starting to creep back up on him.

“Forget I asked.” It’ll do Hank good to get some rest before they have any lengthy or particularly draining conversations. Preferably after coffee, too. “I’ll just get, uh. Out of your hair until mornin’, then.”

Connor stares at him unnervingly for a second, before saying, “You should rest more, Hank. It isn’t good for the elderly to get out of bed before proper sleep has been acquired.”

Hank is getting more used to Connor’s mocking jests, but it still startles a laugh out of him. Connor looks startled – but happy – at the sound, so Hank, satisfied, turns around to go take that bathroom break he had been robbed of earlier.

If he can feel the weight of Connor’s gaze on his back the entire time, he doesn’t comment on it. It would be pretty improper, and not all that helpful, considering it feels terribly pleasant in ways he doesn’t quite want to comprehend. Not yet, at least.

Piss, sleep, coffee.

“Preferably in that order,” Hank mutters as he closes the bathroom door behind him. Nothing interrupts him for the first item on that checklist, so he’ll give himself a pat on the back for one out of three.

Connor’s still awake and watching Hank when he walks back to his room, so Hank calls Sumo out of his room to keep the android company.

“He’ll appreciate you much more than I will, that’s for fuckin’ sure,” Hank reassures the dog, thinking not all too unrealistically of Sumo taking up a ghastly three quarters of the bed. Hank strokes his hand down Sumo’s back as he coaxes the dog out. “Good boy.”

Watching Connor call Sumo over, Hank remains still. Connor’s good with Sumo, and always has been. Sometimes he thinks the dog liked the android faster than he liked Hank, and it’s honestly kind of depressing, considering he’d got the thing as a small pup.

(And yeah, maybe Sumo had been Hank’s way of coping with a loss, but that doesn’t mean he ever loved the dog any less.)

Sumo’s old and grown now, but he’s still just a grand puppy at heart. He jumps up on top of Connor, much to his amusement, and licks at his face once, twice. Hank has half a mind to tell the dog to get down off the couch, but when Connor presses his face into Sumo’s fur and hugs around his middle, Hank thinks he’ll let it go, for once.

Finally turning around, Hank pads back into his room, but doesn’t shut the door behind him. There’s something moderately comforting about knowing that he can hear the soft cooing sounds Connor insists on making to his dog. It’s oddly soothing, and feels almost like a warm security blanket.

Hank’s real blanket, though, is shitty and kind of scratchy, but he pulls it over his body anyways. He’ll make sure to get a new one with Connor when they go and get him less freakish looking clothes, because no one can wear suits day in and day out.

_With_ Connor.

The thought makes Hank’s mind go blank, and he wonders when he became such a busybody housewife that the thought of going shopping for _fucking_ clothes could make him feel so. Peaceful. Rested.

“What I need is actual fuckin’ rest,” Hank says quietly, and, resolved, shuts his eyes once more.

(And if Hank’s dreams are just a fucking looping record of _Connor, Connor, Connor,_ well. That’s Hank’s secret, and he sure as hell ain’t tellin’ it.)


End file.
